Bronchitis, otra vez.

I wouldn't have been there
ten minutes early
if I'd known they'd keep me
waiting for half an hour
after the scheduled time.
I wouldn't've been there
at all if she hadn't
pulled rank, her profession and all.
Us stubborn fitters
sweat, bleed, or drink
the ailment right out of us.
It's no wonder we're sick
for weeks at a time.

But there I was, and I'd
already finished my book.
Even some forms to fill out
in the interim would've been welcomed.
It wasn't in the cards, though;
I shuffled my feet
and tried not to cough too frequently
as the waiting room continued to fill up
with the same people who always
end up in front of me
cashing in two-dollar lottery tickets
at the gas station
and playing their unlucky numbers.

"Mr. Schuler?" a tired nurse asked
through a suddenly gaping door.
The wrinkled mass across from my
still shuffling sneakers rose
with his wife to answer the call.
The two of them looked like
they'd forgotten why'd they'd shown up
in the first place as they awkwardly made
their way towards the door, the cracking of
calcified joints practically audible
in the air-conditioned silence. The doctors there
specialized in pulmonary care
which made many of their patients
very old; I wasn't sure what I was doing there
but the Schulers seemed even more confused.

"Mr. Schuler, would you like your wife
to join you?" the receptionist asked from behind
the obviously non-bulletproof glass.
Some law made that question mandatory, but
the Schulers hadn't voted on it
so they didn't bother answering.

The nurse looked at the secretary in silent defeat.
Their frowns seemed to say
what the soles of my wasted running shoes were mumbling:
At least Mr. Schuler won't die alone.

That's more than some of us can say.

Buster

There're Band-Aids on her nipples
as she's sweating
through her dress:
the subway is hotter
than the restaurant was.

(All I can do is imagine for now.
I'd give my left one to teleport there.)

"So what'd the thrasher say?"

It doesn't matter. He passed
the test, distance be damned.

"Playing by the rules
for a change."

The West Side, the home stretch.

Back in the saddle--
Reverse Cowgirl for awhile
and faces for the finish
(just how we like it, reminded of our love)--
avoiding chronic rugburn
as the aunts castrate the herd.

But it's not so bad, this apron.

Something borrowed, something blue, something old, something new."

In a laundry-scheduling blunder
worthy of a swift
slap to the forehead
I let my four towels
enter the hamper
before leaving for
the weekend.

My error hadn't been
discovered until I went
to shower off
a nauseous day of work
this morbid Monday evening.

My hand was forced.
I pulled the brown one
from my shelf
and slung it over the curtain rod
in a bathroom that needs a cleaning
as desperately as my memory does.

The recent addition to the roster
hung there laughing to itself
as lukewarm water ran down my back
this time unaccompanied
by a pair of willing elbows
to soothe away the ache.

A band of honeycomb pattern
four inches from the draped edge
winked and prodded at my cheeks.

"I did the right thing," I told
a frayed thread dangling from the
corner of the towel.

"Didn't I?"

The kind leave nothing behind.

A shitty short story that got me through a hell of a Sunday (with the help of some Bacardi, mind you).

"Any last requests?" he asked him sneeringly as he knelt in the dusty road. He'd traversed its winding expanse so many times throughout his twenty-six years without ever imagining it'd take him to the next life.

"In the heart," he stated with a dignity only conceivable in the voice of a man who knows he'll soon be no more.

A series of images ran through his head, some more pleasant than others. He'd want that face saved for those who would care enough to give a proper burial; wanted the mind that had served him so well for so many years preserved.

Cecilia. If only he could see her one last time. She'd been sent away to a convent after the incident that roused her family's suspicions. In her absence he started buying guns. When the revolution came a few months later it only made sense for him to partake. What was death in the face of heartache?

He thought back to the time he took the busload of nuns hostage. "Friends of the Republic," the guerrilla leaders had said from their hidden soapboxes "are enemies of our cause." That had justified the plan he'd suggested to commandeer the bus. What better way to show ones enemy the extent of your conviction than to strike out against God himself in the form of the establishment? When he and four other masked men boarded that bus all he could think of was finding his Cecilia sitting amongst the sisters. His bloodshot eyes scanned the faces of the terrified nuns until they found their mark. It took all he had inside himself to refrain from dropping his shotgun, tearing off his mask, and telling her not to worry. He longed to lick away the tears that were rolling down her face, but had to settle for a brief glimpse of her beauty now strangled by black-and-white robes. "The money's not here!" one of the marauders yelled after rifling through the mother superior's briefcase.
"Let's get out of here before the Federals show up." Not a second went by. "Yes, let's go." There was no disapproval in his reply. He'd gotten what he'd wanted out of the ambush.

But was that all so trivial now, or was it all that mattered? He knew that he wouldn't live long enough to find out.

"As a captured member of the radical party in opposition to..."

He knew the recital by heart. Officers were required by law to give that deceptively righteous speech to those about to be executed. From the safety of bushes, rocks, and riverbanks present after numerous raids gone wrong he and his cohorts had heard these words given to brothers in arms about to be shot. "We can't let them die like dogs," he'd argued the first time it happened. Without the slightest hesitation the three men laying low beside him cocked and aimed their weapons at his chest. No words needed to be exchanged at that point. Joining up meant understanding the importance of living to fight another day. No mourner would know the true circumstances of your death from the newspapers, but they might taste the glory of a future victory if you could live long enough to accomplish it. It was a selfish way to live, but the only way.

This was the second time he'd heard the false justification for murder that day, though. The first time had been a mere ten minutes prior as his best friend, now dead by his hand in the road beside him, was in the same position where he currently found himself. The Federals had had his friend at gunpoint and were about to send him to his Maker when a shot rang out from the reeds near the river. The man fell face forward into the dirt as three of the guards turned their baffled faces towards the source of the gunshot. He reloaded his rifle and fired two more rounds, killing one soldier instantly and maiming another well enough to bring him to the ground. In the heat of the moment he had not heard the patrol boat approaching upstream behind him. By the time the bullhorn sounded commanding him to throw down his weapon it was already too late. A bullet from the man prevented from executing his friend had torn through his left shoulder, causing him to drop his rifle into the current behind him as the exit wound exploded in a gush of crimson jelly. The shot was a lucky one, a blind act of desperation into a mass of vegetation. Great men are not supposed to die by such flukes, though they often do.

They dragged his half-conscious body from the bank of the river and into the road where the initial execution was to take place. Knuckles made a firm connection with his cheekbone, bringing him back to the world that would soon be going black. For the first time since being shot he felt the pain in his body. His right hand reached up and fingered the bloody hollow of shattered bone and loose skin where the socket of his left arm had been. Cecilia. Cecilia. How she once loved the broad shoulders that were now half of what they used to be. He hoped she'd never see the corpse.

"On your knees, traitor," the officer commanded. A closer look at his captor's face revealed his identity. He had been the local tailor, a humble man of meager means, before the revolution had started. High mortality rates on both sides had forced men up the chain of command faster than what was customary. Power went to some heads more than others, the simplest men often becoming the most ruthless butchers. "Any last requests?" he asked, spittle at both downturned corners of his mouth.

"In the heart," his answer came.

An adrenaline induced sweat poured off his face and made tiny craters in the dry dirt below him. He could hear their impact like meteors between the pounding of his temples. The scorching sun caused his perspiration to evaporate as soon as it made contact with the ground. The day was so hot that many had ignorantly wished for death.

"Dogs have no hearts, only stomachs," the tailor in battle dress said as he kicked his prisoner in the ribs. "Ready! Aim!"

But that was the last thing his victim ever heard.

He was on that tranquil coast where he'd made love to Cecilia, the two of them trying to evade the curious sight of passing boaters. An innocent giggle came from between her perfectly square teeth as she gathered her skirt around their hips to try to conceal their love from the world. Great men should have such memories to reflect upon.

A government issue .30 caliber bullet tore through the back of his skull just as her laugh ended, thus destroying what Cecilia had truly fallen in love with well before their rendezvous on that beach.

The family lost the option of an open-casket service. Cecilia lost her will to pray with conviction. The world lost one more reason to keep spinning at such an urgent rate. And great men? What are great men, really?

Southpaw love in the Big Apple.

A guy like me doesn't wander
Manhattan alone by himself often;
if he does, it's probably got something
to do with a woman or what she's driven
him to, in this case Puerto Rican Rum--
the same kind slugged by one of the two
grandfathers I never met, ironically not
the Hispanic one.

It was well before midnight, for the record.
Thankfully the liquor stores were still open--
one advantage of staying in such a dump of a city.

"You want anything while I'm out?" I slurred.
She shook her head from the bathroom floor.

That one step in her building tripped me up a bit.
It wouldn't've been so bad if I'd stumbled down
the stairs, the outcome being the same
for all intents and purposes.
My strategic boxer choice for the evening
no longer mattered.

The street didn't smell as strongly of
spoiled ethnic food and urine
in that sangria state. My non-descript black T
preserved my anonymity. I was glad
I'd foregone my typical thift store shirt.
The ones who could read might've figured out
that I was a tourist if I'd made that mistake.
I'd wanted to look presentable in case we went out.
That wasn't happening anymore, not at the rate
things were going. All I wanted was another cocktail
and some peace and quiet. Maybe another
beautifully out-of-key song to lull me to sleep.

Hell's Kitchen. What a perfect waste of a name.

A well-kept homeless man was haggling with
the Muslim shop owner as I staggered in to the narrow
closet of a liquor store.

"Come on, buddy. I'm a regular here. All I have is
three bucks. Give it to me, I'll bring you the last dollar tomorrow."

The flask of rotgut was already in the paper bag that'd
eventually become its curbside coffin. We all knew
it was only a matter of time.

"Alright, but you better pay me tomorrow," said the
slightly less brown man behind the counter
in his cliche sing-song Middle Eastern accent.
It was no stretch to say that in some point in time
soldiers wearing our nation's flag on their shoulders
had fired something at this man's countrymen;
now he was playing God with an alcoholic, the
American Dream gone awry. Tables turn quickly
when the battlefield comes home.
Still, it was good to see he had a heart.

"Thanks, brother. I swear I'll be back." He left
the store clutching the paper bag like a long-lost friend
that'd probably kill him in the end.

"Bottle of Bacardi, please," I said when the clerk
had closed the register.

He reached for the bigger one
but I knew the night wouldn't last quite that long.

"No, the smaller one."

I handed him a twenty. He slipped the bottle
into a black plastic bag and slid my change
across the counter towards me.
I scooped up the coins and pushed the dollar bill
back in his direction.

"Take his dollar. He's good now, alright?"

A smirk fought its way to the surface of his skin.
Three beads of sweat rolled down his neck
to his soaked collar. If the clock on the wall
wasn't digital I probably would've heard it tick.

"OK, my friend," he laughed, both of us knowing
he'd still hit that sorry bastard up for his loan
the next day. "You have a good night."

The pavement felt softer on the walk back to her place.
Part of me was shocked when she buzzed me in
to let me back upstairs.

"You alright, Babe?"

"Yeah. Almost. Yeah."

The ice had already melted in the glass
by the time I downed her cocktail an hour later.
Only one of us was good at nursing.
I didn't mind, it saved me a trip to the kitchen.

We fell asleep once the skeletons stopped rattling.

Somehow the city
became big enough
for the two of us again.

The irony propels itself.

Because the murderer fears the sting of the knife
the thief knows who lurks on the fire escape
and the cheater sees what's up the actor's sleeve:

That's why he won't sleep tonight.

Lease, with option to buy:

a nice place in the West 80s--
the kind where you wouldn't mind
parking overnight, even with
a truckload of borrowed tools

though I still miss my alternate spelling
of your name

rising to rinse the undercarriage afterwards
and honing the dealbreaker hex.

Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black
with silver ink all down her back:

we do our best work in the dark
in lieu of a truth that scares us.

You can choose your friends, too.

A barrage of phone calls
from hired gun uncles--
"Call her back," they'd say
in more than those words
if I'd answer the rings
of the artillery;
but I know better
than to pick up
and tell the patriarch
I have no need for blood
right now
unless it's on my sheets.


Currently reading:
"The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers".

Cosmoline

And that's you
still smoking in the outfield
coughing up a lung

as back home on the ranch
a fly rests upon its swatter
rubbing thin elbows together
in quiet rebellion.

Somewhere in the periphery
there's a man making neighbors'
pets disappear. That's time spent
far more wisely, friend.

Let's bathe in our discontent's winter
before the blackshirts come
to take the remainder
of our intangibles away.

It's a movie that no one left here
has the heart to see, vignettes or none.


Currently reading:
"The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje.

Sham-wowed.

It's a cruel slap to his perfectly trimmed beard
the way they still play
his Infomercials
despite his sudden death
the narcotics found in his system
well hushed.

He's not yelling through the TV screen anymore
and neither am I.

Let us let the dogs sleep
ignoring the useless products
lonely housewives don't need.

I can clean my own mess, thank you.

Unfahrenheit

Maria Dolores is her name
that second one meaning 'pain'
and it's fitting, all considered.

She was burned out of several
low-rent apartments
back in the Fifties and Sixties
I've heard
but somehow the family
still has that suitcase
of bent-corner, sepia photos intact.

Who was the one to bang on the doors?
Who was the one to choke on the smoke?
Was it her brothers or mother
yanking those snapshots
and portraits from soon-to-burn closets?

The way that she's framed the best of the bunch
answers that question complete.

At one time in your life, Ma
you had your priorities straight.

Sonny vs. Mario vs. MV

Then there was the time
we were half-drunk in my room
sharing not-so-secret secrets
while trying to be coy.

She was sitting Indian style
in front of my tallest bookshelf.
I loved the inanimate object far more.

"I keep money stashed in one
of those books right in front of you,"
I blurted with a sad sense of pride
in my oh-so-tortured savings method.

The truth was that I used to
keep a hundred-and-a-half in there
but would always forget whether or not
I'd used it or not when I'd flip through
the pages and find them empty.
In an attempt to organize my system
I left a piece of paper in there
to write the date and amount of money
hidden within the binding to help me
keep track; that didn't seem to work
for some unknown reason, either.
In reality I'd given up on the emergency money
philosophy since I couldn't keep track of it
and it usually wound up being spent
halfway through a drunken night
on something that was very temporary--
almost as temporary as that romantic endeavour
would turn out to be.

"Can you guess which one?" I asked.
I wanted to know if she could figure it out based on the title
which I naturally found very appropriate.
Well, it was more than that--
I wanted to see if she understood my way of thinking
or not. That's all I've ever really sought in another:
understanding, even when I don't understand myself.
A tall order for a short temper.
I guess that's why I vent here instead.

Her hand moved from left to right across the backs
of the books, stopping in front of the wrong one.
I forget which book it was now, even after glancing to my right
but that doesn't matter anyway.
It was wrong. Dead wrong.
Unforgiven.

"No, no. That's not it!" I pleaded with fate.
It seemed that none of them would ever
pull that sword from that stone.
" 'The Terrible Hours' is where I keep it. As in
I'd need money in times of despair. It makes
perfect sense. Don't you get it?"

She didn't. She just looked at me with those
big doe eyes as if to let me down easy, her head
cocked to one side like a confused puppy.
I was crazy and expected someone else to be, too.
One would have to be to go down with this ship.
That's what that book was about, actually; a submarine
that sank to the bottom of the Atlantic
with its crewmen trapped inside.
They got them out, otherwise it wouldn't have made
for very good sales at the bookstores.
Most people still need happy endings
and though I hate to admit it
I'm hoping for one myself.

So I'm asking you now:
Are you crazy enough?

Eating the windfall apples again.

She's on a couch and she's losin' it
her voice trying to sound profound
but only making a bigger fool of itself
than the worthless writer did with the words
she's stumbling through tonight.
The middle syllable of a five-dollar adjective
is accented improperly, over-stressed
for an emphasis that isn't there.
In a fit of self-conscious floundering
she repeats the offending phrase
just barely aloud at first, then for
her sole intended listener to hear.
He's sprawled out on an adjacent
piece of secondhand furniture, his mind less
attentive to the orator than mine
though I'm fifteen feet away.
I cringe in mild horror, glad that
they're not the muddled cords
that'll someday lull my kids to sleep.
More the cruel critic than erudite ear
I march up the creaking steps
to talk trash about another one
who will never taste the wrath.
"I can love them," I reassure myself
in the inner tone I've selfishly come to love,
"as long as their books don't clutter my shelves..."
and the rabbit hides under the baseboard
while the butcher wipes sweat from his brow
well-knowing that most people, himself included
were born to sound fake in the air.

Sin mi voz.

On a borrowed plaid blanket
and planted grass
betwixt a river
and it's long-dead discoverer
lay two olive lovers
gazing into rough-hewn sculptures
whose sole remaining tests
be those of time, pressure being
pre-determined and defeated
unanimously.

He doesn't notice his hand entwined
in that lazy lock as the aperture opens;
it hereby makes his case

as he now prepares to sleep
unmentionably and alone, wiling away
a countdown just as sacred
as his vow to make
warding off dog tones
a special goal of his.

And it's love.
And was love, even in that big city.
And he thanks God she didn't choose
to learn
until now.

The first thing I did after reloading the shotgun.

Lost a bet with myself and shaved my head
but I'm growing it out again
like Conor used to sing about
back when we were single.
I was standing in a highway rest stop
and instantly knew which man in the crowd
that long-haired broad would walk to
after leaving the ladies' room.
It wasn't me.

Let's get something else straight--
He didn't die for you or me;
He did it so some lonely misanthropes
could write a book, a fairytale
to help them sleep at night.
Me?
I've found a better method.
"Mine is a jealous god," the children shall
recite as they dance around the architect
to the tune of a baker's dozen.
"Take it easy, or any way you can get it,"

and we heard the Grand Finale
from the safety of my room
for a reason.

"Let the loser have the last word, Son,"
a welder once told me.
Fast windshield wipers used to
turn his hungover stomach, too.
Those days are done for him now, but
I can still smell the whiskey and women
on his beard if there's no breeze.

Some can't handle the mixture of hot and cold.
This is not for them.



Currently reading:
"Animal Farm" by George Orwell.

Rocco, if you only knew...

"Jesus, kid. It's pouring off your face."

"Some of us work for a living."

"Yeah, but that's excessive."

"I sweat in January."

"You part...?"

"No, but my mom's Puerto Rican."

"My granddaughter's half."

"It's not so bad."

"Didn't say it was."

"I'm Italian and German, too."

"You're a mutt."

"Better than being an old dog trying to learn new tricks."

"Who said I wanted to learn anything?"

"I forgot, you're a stubborn old laborer."

"So can your dad cook as well as your mother?"

"No. He tried, though."

"Tried?"

"I haven't seen him in three years."

"Why not?"

"He's crazy."

"Oh."

"That's why I'm glad I've got guys like..."

"So your mom makes rice and beans. You're lucky."

"Yeah."

"Raining like hell out there."

"Tornado warning, too."

"You know anyone who's been hit by a tornado?"

"Well...no."

"Then don't worry about it, Dorothy."

"But if I don't, who will?"

"Guys like me."

"Exactly."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Go push your broom."

"I'm not too old to knock you off that ladder."

"That's fine. If I get hurt I can go home early."

"This is your home, for the next thirty years."

"Not if I prove my father wrong."

"Something tells me you already have."

"Maybe."

"What's wrong with your arm?"

"My tattoos itch."

"All of a sudden?"

"Yeah."




Currently reading:
"Death of a Salesman" by Arthur Miller.

cause and Effect

When the honeybees die off
the plants will find a way
to pollenate themselves.

This summer's bat shortage
hasn't left me with any more
mosquito bites than usual.

But believe me when I tell you
that if the acid rain and bug repellant
hadn't hushed the bullfrog chorus
not even my best friend
could've dragged me from that lake.

Ode to the East Side

My reference to the misspelling
of her name in the local paper's recent article
went right over her bleached-blonde hair.
Something else was on what was left of her mind.
She told me that the bar was closing
at the end of the summer, that I
might not see her again.
"Keep your hair short
and save the beard
for when you're old like
the rest of the guys who
come in here. You're a hot tamale
right now."
Little did she know that neither the look
she preferred for me or the bar she worked at
would last to the end of July. I was only responsible
for one of those fates-- that's all I can ever claim.

I remember her crying on the porch
bumming a smoke, her lipstick
on the filter and her expensive chest
pressed against mine as she told me
she'd miss tending bar at that dump.
It was hard to watch such a simple
existence come apart so entirely.
It was hard not to get somewhat hard
though I'm not proud of that.
"Do you know anyone who would hire me?"
"For what?"
"As a waitress or bartender."
"I'll ask around."
Two weeks later she tried to lure a slightly more
desperate regular in with what she'd really meant.
I don't believe he declined, despite his eye contact
and vehement insistence that he'd controlled himself.
A good businessman can lie to your face.

The last time I was there someone returned
two cocktails, claiming the vodka was in the cola
and the rum was in the tonic. She replaced them
for free. Then she made the same mistake
and almost ran out crying. I could see
why the place was going under.
"Nice ring," she told some haggard sea wench
who was sucking on a granny cocktail
in the hopes that I'd been drugged.
"Some asshole gave it to me," came the shrew.
"He's only an asshole for giving it to you," I mumbled
into my pint glass, the words drowning in carbonation.
I thumbed through my wallet and bought the clearly lost
young couple at the end of the bar a round before rising
to my feet in an attempt to find the legs that'd
somehow manage to bring me home safely again.
It was how I wanted to remember that dive.
Guess it was a success.

White T-shirts as flags.

You're not around, you're out of town.
Who is it inside you now?

You never host, you'll never host
or you'll walk around a graveyard, ghost.

Is it decent of me to pace naked like this
if the blinds are drawn, the windows locked?

Sugar to wash the salt down for dinner.
The brownie mix will stay on the shelf.
There's no one around to grab me
a towel when I forget that there isn't one
in the bathroom mid-shower.

And this is what it was like to fold laundry.

I don't put any of them away
since I deserve to hear them laughing:
"Virginia, Virginia! Can't we go back there?"

But Baby, Baby, Baby
buy me time to load the mags.
Run around the yard if you've got to.
It'll all pay off in spades
if you
take it like a champ.

Did you have to spray my pillow with perfume
before you left?

You did, you did;
and I'm OK now, thanks.

trophy wives, trophy scars

Slowly, how the knife enters:
Acute pain where tip meets
skin latter giving way to
former with a
tearing heard
only at the
cellular level.
An oddly wel-
comed release
as surface pres-
sure and tension give
way forming a vac-
uum around the
blade. The en-
velope widens
to accept a
sharp truth,
deeper
deep-
ening
to the
hilt.
No
rushing red. No hurries here except to the end
of the book. I swore I wouldn't mention paper
this time. This was supposed to be about a
girl but I muttered about a woman instead.

BEC, SPK

Rocco, the fifty-eight-year-old laborer
on the job, had beat me to the deli again.
He was the coffee break boy for his company
despite his age; I was the same
because of mine. His order had already been placed
and he was sitting at a table reading the paper
when I walked through the door.

"Mornin, kid," he mumbled. "Take a number."

"Who are you kidding, Roc? Laborers can't read."

"I just look at the pictures," he said with a grin wise enough
to know to steal a man's thunder by beating him to the punch.

I read the breakfast list to the guy behind the counter
knowing he'd mess up at least one of the items.
Us coffee boys knew the place's reputation for errors
but the food was good and the devil we knew
was better than that other one.

"Have a seat, Mike," Rocco said, pulling out
a chair with his dirty steel-toed boot.

"Gave up trying to sound out the words?"
I wasn't giving up that easily.

He shot me a look that said "If you were my son
I would've just slapped you." Part of me wished he had.

"Lemme see that paper, pops," I said
in my best Brooklynese.

He slid the newspaper across the table towards me.
It was open to the horoscope page.

Rocco folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
Even though it had rained for most of the last month
his face was the color of a ripening tomato, a hint of olive
still present in the tentative red. His curly, gray hair was
matted down from where his hardhat had been; it looked
like something that should've been keeping a dog warm instead.
But those sparkling eyes were probably just as bright
as they were in his high school yearbook photo.
That was where I tried to focus my attention when talking to the man.

"Hey, look at this. It says it's a four-star day for Pisces.
My luck's finally changed." I went on to read my favorable prediction
not caring whether he wanted me to or not.
" 'Something that happened in your past will motivate you to move
forward with one of your old plans. Touch base with the people
who inspired you the first time around. The timing is much better now.'
Not bad, huh?"

"You're just an apprentice, your life is still meaningless," he replied.
I gave him credit for his witty sincerity. It was obvious he'd been meaning
to remind me of that fact for awhile.

"Maybe so, but at least it looks good on paper. What's your sign?"

"It depends on which newspaper it is. Some say I'm a Cancer, others
bump me ahead to a Leo. I pick whichever one sounds better that day."

I found them on the page. Neither of them had as many stars as mine, but
there was no mention of death, doom, or gloom. They didn't sound
as appropriate as mine had when I read them aloud, though maybe
that's because we all make them relative to our own secret lives somehow.

"Sounds like I'm going for Cancer this time, kid."

"That's the first time I've seen someone say that with a smile," I said
pointing to his pack of Reds sitting on the table between us.
"Don't you think that's a bit of a jaded way to assess your future?"

"The future can't hurt anyone as much as the past. I'm not scared."

For a guy who pushed a broom for a living he sure was making sense.

I glanced down at his hands, gnarled and scarred
like the roots of a tree clinging to the edge
of a too-fast river, the current having its way with the flesh.
We both knew which horoscope was truly his.
Our eyes drifted to the five-day forecast
on the television that hung in the corner of the deli
in an admirable attempt at acting aloof.
I decided to let him have his lie;
God knows there are a good twenty people
who let me live mine every day.
Maybe twenty-one, though I'm still not certain.

"Rocco, you're up," the sandwich man shouted.

"I win again, kid," Roc said as he rose to his feet
to pay for his coffee order. "Ya gotta get up pretty early
in the morning to get the best o' this old man."

I decided to let him have that one, too.

Skipping Browning, for now.

It seemed a fitting time to finish
the anthology of poems that had been haunting
my night stand and lunch breaks for months.
Towards the end it finally became
what it should've been all along
but then again I'm biased
and no fan of romanticism.
People made fun of me for never
taking the clear dust jacket off;
not "people", but a person.
I've shrugged off bigger criticisms
mostly from reflections.
As if in search of one last gem
I flipped back through its contents tonight
making sure to check the first few pages
for some possible dedication in a script too perfect
to be recent. No such luck, though I found its source.
The library rental card secured
inside the front cover revealed
that it had only been borrowed nine times
in its fifteen-year term at
the Julia L. Butterfield Memorial Library in Cold Spring.
It seemed a waste, though for a reason different
from the one that led some liberal librarian
to donate it to the thrift store where I bought it
for a quarter: this was another kind of shame.
Nothing worse than waste, be it of space
or an idea. There was one particularly poignant ditty
at the end about a woman who kept the pocket-dulled
ring from her failed marriage on her keychain as a reminder
of what love is not--
it should have been the last poem
of that 524-page abortion.

Mounting Saint Mary.

A marble would've rolled across the room
faster than one of the pinewood derby cars
my father and I made during my cub scout days
had I dropped one on the floor of
that Midtown apartment.
The paint was too thick, made the doors stick
and filled in the grooves in the trim.
My father could've used some
for the outside of his peeling house
though the yard looks great as always.

All I wanted to come home to was my air conditioning
and some comfort food, but my roommate made goat
for dinner.
Fucking goat.
Canned soup isn't going to cut it
and the truck's too tired to go back out

so I'm going to bed hungry:
hungry, but well-loved.
It's more than I deserve.

I know I'm no knight, girls
but I seem to remember a few good ones
we spent together.
Carry them in your back pocket
right next to your knife.

The Sins of Your Gods

The bar was supposed to be
closing in ten minutes; the black-shirted kid
behind the tap had flashed the lights
three times to designate Last Call
but none of the seasoned old men
sitting in the smoke-filled room seemed
to notice. It'd take more than some
amateur mixologist to drag them out
of a ginmill before they were ready to go.

I approached Ernie first.
He was standing, just as he wrote
with a short, melting tumbler next to
his right hand. A sweater choked his neck
and bull chest as he sweat into his moustache.
He looked more like a Rizzo than a Hemingway somehow.

"You got such a bad rap unfairly," my subconscious
told him. "They called you sexist, but your females
were always stronger if you really read the lines.
The sun only rose when they told it to, and arms were
dropped when they declared armistice. It doesn't get
much closer to the truth than that."

"They still didn't get it," he sighed to someone else.

"It was enough to drive a man to his shotgun."

"A man should never keep it far away," he replied
as his eyes drifted off to his happy hunting grounds.
I was thankful that his eyes and the rest of his head
were still intact for my dream. It would've been
traumatic otherwise.

"But what about the ones that got away?"
It was a feeble attempt, but I had to make it;
I knew he was already gone.

Bukowski must've overheard me from his corner
of the bar. He shot a thumb in my direction
and whispered something to the spineless bartender
who had given up on kicking anyone out.
I picked up my cocktail with the intention
of heading over to see Hank and clarify
what I meant so I wouldn't be crushed
by the thought of a hero laughing at my naivety.
The bartender must've responded with something
that the old man didn't much appreciate. Hank
knocked his wine glass to the floor and swore
at the terrified young man behind the oak.
"Try saying that after you've been weened
from your mother's tit, you ignorant little shit.
Now hand me that bottle of scotch."
I decided not to go see Hank. Some images are best
preserved by never being seen up close.

"I'll tell you about the ones who got away,"
came a soft voice from behind me. Sherwood Anderson
tapped me on the shoulder and handed me his card.
I slipped it into my back pocket and had a seat next
to him. His business suit and oil-slicked hair
seemed far too classy for such a dive. It made sense
that he'd rather be associated with these men
than the ones he had been forced to interact with
in the real world, though. He made the sign
of a throat being slashed to the bartender
to suggest cutting Bukowski off. We both
tried not to laugh at the attempted manslaughter joke.

"Do you know what the real shame is, boy?"
he asked in his usually hidden Ohio accent.
"Not the skirts that escaped, but the stories."

I thought back to how he died. Splinters from
a toothpick that garnished a martini consumed
during a going away party had been caught
in his throat and caused an infection
during his cruise to South America.
He died in some humid hospital in a country
that didn't understand the langauge he loved.

Hank succumbed to cancer; Hem offed himself--
they both saw it coming, had time
to fire those last shots from the hip.
Sherwood still had some aces up his sleeve
when he was called home. His notebooks were
probably found by relatives and auctioned off
to the highest bidder, the roots of the random
words and phrases tragically misunderstood.
He was heartbroken by his inability
to get it all down in time-- a writer's greatest fear.
I could see that the handkerchief in
the breast pocket of his blazer had been used
recently, probably in a toilet stall
where no one would see a gentleman weeping.

I didn't know how to console the poor man
so I didn't bother trying. A good writer
knows what not to say and when not to say it.
I patted him on the shoulder and pointed
towards our belligerent friend who was now
passed out on his placemat, his forearms his pillow
the bottle of scotch in the crotch of his elbow.
The bartender looked relieved
as he scrubbed a pint glass.

"And to think that man outlived all of us,"
Sherwood said with a grin as the color
returned to his face.

"He couldn't have done it without you two,"
I replied, counting my singles and leaving
a generous tip under my coaster.

It was time for me to leave.
I had a new story to wake to.

Great Expectations

I'm digging through a stack of CDs now, but most of the ones up here in my room are useless: the classics are scratched to the point of ruin, and the unlabeled ones are demos from defunct teenage bands I used to play with onstage. It'll be a silent romp with the buttons tonight, I'm not in the mood to play YouTube DJ. Besides, nothing I could find up here in my deceivingly safe hermitage would top the chorus of that last song I heard on my ride home. Those lines about first wives and everybody leaving are just too damn catchy. They made me run that last red light between my room and me tonight. And if I'd had someone in the passenger seat or a pack of smokes to console me I would've sped right past my driveway and went for the ride that I would've taken had I been seven years younger.

I used to do this with a beer can statue and an overflowing ashtray next to my mouse pad. Now I'm lucky if there's a squirrel on the tree outside my window or my ancient neighbor's out back sucking on a cigarette that should've killed him years ago. As long as this cursor's still blinking there's still hope. It was no overstatement when I said I need these people like holes in my head, though maybe that'd relieve some of the pressure. The phone keeps ringing, but it's not who I want it to be. Not tonight.

Sometimes my mother doesn't understand the power of words. She's a classic example of why one should respond instead of reacting, should take a few moments to let that filter between brain and mouth kick in. I know she usually doesn't mean to be harmful with her statements; at the same time, however, she should know her son well enough by now to realize that he's an over-sensitive emotional packrat who takes words, both written and spoken, very seriously. Tonight, Ma, you failed.

We were watching TV over a meal she'd made to lure me to the house. The fried flounder with onions always went so well with white rice, peas, and carrots. It was a combination I'd enjoyed since childhood, a tried and true time machine that takes me to a better place when there was still the semblance of any kind of family life. A segment about infant memory came on as we chewed our food at the table. She reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. The reporter said that newborn babies start memorizing events in the womb, simple things like the theme song of the mother's favorite soap opera. My mom smiled and looked over at me; "Stevie's Tricycle" she said. That's the title of a book she used to read to me through her stomach and after I was born. It's been packed away in a cardboard box somewhere for years, but if you opened it to any page and gave me the first few words I bet I could finish the sentence. And the colors, the lush greens of the bushes in the background and the red and yellow fruit, presumably peaches, hanging from the trees in little Stevie's yard. I remember those, too. The tricycle was fire engine red and had long streamers dangling from the ends of the white handebars. I wish I remembered more things like those streamers.

"Maybe you subconsciously remember what he did," she said after swallowing her bite of rice. I knew which "he" she meant, the only one it could possible be. I pretended not to hear her and hoped she'd change the subject. She didn't.

"I was seven months pregnant with you when he..." but I cut her off before she could finish.

"Please, Mom. Not to be rude, but I don't want to know."

I have enough reasons to hate the man, to fear him, to love him senselessly despite his abandonment, to pray I don't complete the cycle. Some pieces of the puzzle should remain brown-side-up for the sake of what's left of my own well-being. My mother didn't seem to agree. She wanted to fill me in on some abusive act that he perpetrated while I was still defenseless, not that I'm much less vulnerable now. Shit, I haven't seen the guy in almost three years and I'm still haunted by his Roman nose and blank shark's eyes.

The rest of the meal was silent. Mom acted as if I'd insulted her by not wanting to hear the tale that I knew would only break my heart further. Part of her was hoping I'd complete her sentences like I would've if she started reading "Stevie's Tricycle" so she wouldn't feel so alone in that memory. Thankfully, it's not one we share. I cleared my plate and put it in the sink making sure to express my gratitude for dinner. She nodded her head flippantly and took a sip of the white wine she was drinking from a dixie cup. The kitchen didn't feel as warm as the womb.

My stepfather was well into the vodka by the time I went back to the living room to talk to him about work. He repeated himself within the same sentences and sucked at the tumbler of ice like it contained some unknown cure. It seemed like a good time to make my escape since the conversation was going nowhere. I went upstairs to bid my grandmother farewell. She told me in her native tongue that she prays for me every day and that God is with me wherever I go. I rubbed her back and thanked her even though I wasn't so convinced as to God's intentions for keeping tabs on me. I feel more like the guinea pig or the jester than the beloved son most times. And that's just what my name's supposed to mean, Michael David: "He who is like the Lord; Beloved." It's laughable, really.

That laundry must've been crucial to the next day's outfit. My mother was folding it with the fervor of a desperate stockholder as the line graph plummets. "Goodnight, Mom," I said as I gave her a hug. She barely wrapped her arms around me, didn't look me in the eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm tired, Mike," she lied. She'd been tired all her life, partially from dealing with people like my estranged father and the drunk downstairs. It had never been an excuse to half-ass her only child.

I left her to her folding, grabbed the bag of leftovers she'd packed, and headed for my truck, fumbling for my keys in the pocket of my jeans. When the stereo came on I was glad to hear that blue-collar voice belting the woes of a lost generation. And when that song I mentioned earlier came on I hit twenty over the speed limit like that dreaded "he" was following me. Sometimes I wish that was the case. I'll never let my hostage get away.

The right man for the job.

The pit of my stomach spat on my lungs in disgust
as I hit a pothole the size of a small child.
I felt like the hubcap I'd seen leaning against a speed limit sign
a few miles back, praying to be reclaimed--
the worst part being that it was my own fault as usual.

It had almost been a year since
someone had plowed into the sign
in front of the local volunteer ambulance corps.
The culprit must've been well over the legal limit
since the sign was a good thirty feet
from the road. Even I don't drive after that many.
It took them three months
just to remove the broken cinder blocks and wood debris.
Volunteers must be a dying breed.
There was yellow CAUTION tape
wrapped tightly around the scene like dismal garland.
It was an eyesore that reminded me
to be grateful that it hadn't been me
behind the wheel or in front of the hood.

I was on my way home from a memory today
when I saw the latest development
in the sign's slow restoration: a man in a trench
around the perimeter of the four-by-six foundation
preparing a solid bed of dirt on which to lay his block.
I say "his block" because it was just that; there were
no scrawny teenagers looking to make a summertime buck
or underpaid Latinos looking to feed a family.
It was simply the man, his trade, and a labor of love.
I could tell he wasn't getting paid for the job
by the look on his face, the sway in his step, the arch in his back.
It takes a man who works with his hands to notice these things.

The sun was at its golden peak and my lap was very empty.
The mason was in his late fifties, a yellow sleeveless shirt
showing decades worth of sun-spots on his shoulders.
He wore a large-brimmed straw hat as if he were in his garden
and didn't seem to care how long it took
to tamp the dirt down with his feet in that trench
so long as it got done
and got done right.

He wanted it to be better than the last.
His name would be on it.
His dinner would be on the table when he got home
and his wife of thirty years would rub the skin cancer
right out of those weary shoulders after his nightly shower.
They'd make new love and fall asleep mid-chapter afterwards.

It wasn't the first time I was jealous of a man closer to death.

Changed men, alright.

It's so hard not to laugh when
the broads have the nerve to hit you
with something like
"My Gerald would never do such a thing,"
or "James has changed so much
since I've met him," or my personal favorite
for obvious reasons:
"You're a bad influence on my Richard!"

Let me lend you ladies a clue about that nut Jerry, that
consistently grinning gin-drinking Jimmy--
They're the same as they were before you met them
when you're not around, and when you finally
bail and leave me to buy the rounds in the aftermath
they'll still be the same men with just one more
excuse to get sloshed.

And for Christ's sake, leave my Dick out of this.

A Sunday Afternoon

We found our own eight feet of beach
along the Hudson, delineated by twisted trees
and vines reaching out towards the salt air.

I stood on the tips of my toes
picking mulberries from the ancient tree
and dropping them in the cup of my hand
to eat from the comfort of the folding chairs
she'd brought. Her flip-flopped feet
were being accosted by brackish water
as the waves tripped over themselves
and crashed onto shore.

My fingers were stained purple
from over-zealous berry handling.
I smashed one on her forehead
but the juice wiped right off.
My sinister side was disappointed.

We stared out at the shining crests
and diving gulls. Twenty-somethings
flew by on jet skis. There were some boaters.
I was glad no one waved. It was far too nice a day
to lie again.

Part of me was legitimately frightened
that my old man would come walking
along the trail and find us.
He's the one who showed me that place.
He's the one who's shown me a lot of things
not all of which were quite as beautiful.
Back when we still spoke
he told me that he saw me sitting on a bench
at the pier in Cold Spring with a pretty young blonde
under my arm and didn't want to bother us.
That story's stayed with me moreso than I'd like to admit.
Like I said, it's a legitimate fear.

"My dad would like this place," she said.
"He could take pictures."

Was it possible to get the red-eye out of the Devil?
No, of course not.
I kicked a piece of driftwood into the river
letting the receding tide decide its fate.
It was more fair than the norm.

A group of kids came running down the trail
and right into our cove.
They wouldn't have been able to gather
any mulberries, even if they knew how good they were;
I'd picked all the ones low to the ground.
My purple-stained hands hid each other
in my lap, the blank stares of innocent children
enough to condemn a guilty conscience.

The youngest one, a slender little white-haired girl
climbed into a crotch in the J-shaped tree that extended out
over the water. Her father came along to take a picture.
The smile was just as fake as mine used to be.
We don't want to fake those moments, Dad.
We want to live them.

"Do you need help getting down?" a concerned older
brother asked as she maneuvered her way
back to the ground without answering.
I remained poised and ready to pluck her from
the shallow water if she slipped.
I knew she wouldn't fall, though.
Not after that bitter Kodak moment
that didn't capture anything worth keeping.

"Look at the truck on the railroad tracks
on the other side of the river," I said.
"It must be one of those ones that has
steel wheels instead of tires to ride the rails.
You couldn't pay me enough to do that."

"But they must know the train schedule,"
she said, the kid in her showing
through the potential front-page tragedy.

"Sure, but people make those schedules.
They're susceptible to human error.
It's no science."

She didn't disagree.
She must've been learning when to let me go.
We changed the subject.
And after we got home I learned that mulberries
are an aphrodesiac.

conscience treading water

Have you ever noticed
how places that sell things
which you may want to keep secret
all have the same black plastic bags
with the diagonal gold stripes?

The liquor store has them;
the gun store;
the porn store--
carnal, violent vices all hidden
by the same thin layer
of opaque petroleum product.

No? Didn't think so...

As the Fifth Horseman sits with furrowed brow
talking shop to a blank wall
in a crowded house sans chocolate
too lazy, tired, and dry to go out
with morals forced oblong.

Less talk, more bull.

I crept up to the red
light and craned my neck
southward to check out the livestock
in the trailer one lane over.

The mid-afternoon sun shone
fiercely through the translucent roof
casting a yellow glow upon
the motionless cattle.
All of them had horns, some the size
of my forearm.
Their eyes were big and dull
but not in a dumb way;
more like a shark's dead eyes--
the kind that know their power.

I wondered if they were being brought
to the slaughter or to greener pastures
maybe even put out to stud.
The blank looks on the faces of the Mexicans
in the back seat of the pick-up towing
the trailer didn't clarify the matter.
The driver adjusted his sunglasses
and braced himself for the sharp left turn
of the entrance ramp leading onto the highway.
There was a lot of money hitched to his vehicle.
There were too many tools in the back of mine.

When the green arrow permitted us to proceed
I let my foot up off the brake slowly and started
to commit myself to the turn
taking one more look at the naively stoic bulls.
There was something to be learned from them
but the line of cars behind me wasn't about to wait.

It's been one of those weeks
when the animals have more to say.
The world may never know, right Mr. Owl?

Blood Money

We were driving back from
the gun store I'd discovered
out in Hopewell. I conned him
into joining me after work
by offering to drive. Some men
are even cheap with forty
dollars-an-hour in their paychecks
plus benefits, but if that made me like him
any less I wouldn't have invited him.

"I used to do a lotta 'coon huntin'
when I was your age," he said
with a drawl not uncommon
in his neck of the county.
"My dog would chase it up
a tree, then I'd shoot it
in the head so I didn't ruin
the fur and make it worthless.
One time this big ol' bastard
wouldn't stay still for long enough
to get a good shot so I blew the
branches out from under his feet
until he finally climbed down the tree.
My dog wrestled the 'coon for awhile.
When the 'coon bit him I kicked it
and the thing reached out and grabbed
my leg. My dog grabbed him from behind
and snapped his neck without puncturing
its skin. He was a hell of a huntin' dog.
Made me a lot of money, too."

"So why'd you give it up, Ed?"

"My dog died."

"Why not get another one? Too much training?"

"I didn't want to waste my time with the impossible.
They say you only get 'coon dog in your life."

"And three good women."

"Nope. Only one."

We sat in silence for half a minute
pondering which one of us was right.

Thankfully a toll booth broke the silence.
Ed reached into his pocket and whipped out
the crisp dollar bill that'd bring us back to
where we belonged, whether or not
either of us were fully convinced anymore.


Currently reading:
"Poor White" by Sherwood Anderson.

Best served cold.

My partner, who's more of an opponent
had left work an hour early
to get his car inspected, so he said.
No one argued with his request.
I was thankful for the silence, didn't mind
working alone. My foreman wanted
some holes punched in the backs
of the classroom heaters we'd be
installing the following week.
I was focusing on not wailing my left thumb
with the hammer as I held the screwdriver
in place when I heard someone
enter the classroom behind me.

"Just came back to get a few things,"
came a timid male voice.

"Hey, it's your classroom," I replied
putting my tools down and swinging
around on my knee. Sure enough
it was him. There was no mistaking
that tall lanky man in his late thirties.
His dark brown hair was in the earliest
stages of a comb-over, his thin-framed
glasses dangled loosely from his head
and his top front teeth looked as though
he used them to open bottles.
My friends and I used to make fun of him
in junior high, but now he was a legitimate teacher
who didn't even realize he had the last laugh.

"No more subbing for you, huh?" I said
with a congratulatory smirk.

"No....no...." He seemed afraid, like I'd
just mentioned his own personal Vietnam.
"Did I have you?"

Have me? Please. He'd never had anyone
his whole life. But with a name like
Mr. Kaiser it was hard to forget him
and all of the World War I jokes we made
about him thanks to our social studies lessons.

"Yeah, I remember you from junior high.
It's good to see you got a job!"
I instantly regretted saying it after
hearing how the words could be misconstrued
as a back-handed compliment.
It wasn't meant to be malicious.
He didn't take it that way, though.
I could tell by the way his chest heaved
in agreement with my statement
about his long-awaited achievement, the one
that I'd give all the copper in the world to claim.

"It's tough being a substitute teacher. No one
takes you seriously."

I didn't want to break the news that there
was little chance that that had changed.
You either have it or you don't, despite
what that framed piece of paper says.
"Well not anymore, Mr. Kaiser."
The high road seemed more reasonable.
I even threw in his name to make him
feel important. He deserved it for the hell
we used to put him through without his knowledge.
He was the kind of man who undoubtedly spent
some serious time staring at the ceiling at night.

"It must be strange being back in a Newburgh school,"
he said. Suddenly I felt as though he were onto me.
That sheepish grin of his wasn't so harmless anymore.

"Yeah. I've recognized a few faces."
There was a conscious effort made
to avoid grinding my teeth.

"Man, I swore I left my computer speakers
in this closet. Guess not. Don't get old."

He obviously didn't know me as well as I knew him.
Still, I figured I'd brighten his day a bit.

"At least you'll be one of the lucky ones come September."

"How so?" he asked, visibly intrigued.

"Your classroom is on the east side of the hallway.
The ones on the west side aren't getting new
ventilators installed; therefore, no AC."

Those bashed-in teeth poked through his lips
in what I took to be a shy smile.

"The other teachers will be jealous. There'll be
arguments made about seniority, tenure, and old age
regarding who should get the cooler rooms."

"We'll work it out," he said in a humble yet confident tenor.

I believed him. People like him always do work it out
despite the years of subbing and other trials.
Me? Can't say the same quite as enthusiastically.

"Time to go home and check my house again,"
he mumbled unaffectedly.

"Have a good one, and good luck
finding those speakers," I said as I knelt down
to get back to the task at hand.

"Have fun with your heater," I heard over my shoulder
as the door closed behind me.

The hammer practically swung itself
for the rest of the afternoon.
My thumb didn't stand a chance.

force-fed umbilical cake.

Her hair was smiling, alright
and I guess I could've stayed there longer
had her tarnish not been my draw
had Brock Davenport been my name
--

but
We're all entitled to a little
revisionist history
to stay on the saner side of things
if nothing else
as
goiters and iodine deficiency
point crooked fingers at each other
and miner poets fire their red rockets
impotently into the ceiling fan
in search of that big nut.

Good girl: you've lost your gag reflex.
It's the only way to survive 'round these parts.

Good god:

214, 28, 28A, 213, 32, 52, Home.

If you were man enough to be here
you'd probably be proud:

This time I didn't make
that wrong sharp left
wasting sunlight.
This time I didn't turn down
Old Kingston or let a second
do the same, sinking in my seat.
This time there were no turtles
to save in the shoulder
and no guilt brought on
by tell-tale rear-view mirrors.

My right hand on the knee and the shifter.
My eyes on the road and the river.

I was just like you again.

I've known a lot of beautiful women
and some of them almost
knew me.

We left the fireworks early
to avoid getting stuck in traffic
after I spilled your beans.
Yes, the consensus remains the same.

Wish me luck on this one, Pop.
Your God and mine may differ
but our passion's still the same.

And to think I'd rather pretend that you're dead.

"iMe joda con cajones!"

"Do you know what
that woman just said?"
I asked as we walked out
of the department store.

"I'm not sure, she was speaking
too quickly."

"Most Hispanic women do when they're mad..."

"So what'd she say?"

" 'Fuck me with balls,' " I smiled wide.
"Let me make that a little more clear
by adding some punctuation:
'Fuck me, with balls.'
The pause created by the comma
differentiates the two parts of the sentence.
She doesn't literally want to get fucked, but
she feels as though she is for some unspecified
negative reason. The 'with balls'
in this case is also not to be taken literally;
rather, think of the connotation implied when
someone says 'That engine's got balls,'
or something else that exudes brute strength.
The most colorful phrases in the Spanish language
don't make sense when translated word-for-word to English."

"Thanks for the lesson, professor."

The irony of the accusation made me cringe.
'Fuck me, with balls' indeed...

That Richie Cunningham could be a real cocksucker when he wanted to be...

No one likes an awkwardly close
two-seater men's room
especially at a bar
but someone's got to
break the silence.

We were both done
draining the vein.
I made it to the sink first.
The motion-activated sensor
wasn't working
despite my drunken hand gestures
in its general direction.

"Jesus Christ. Just my luck," I said
while doing the rain dance.

"The fuckin' thing only works sporadically."
We were both a bit impressed
with his alcohol-unimpaired vocabulary.

I squatted down, reached up to where
the steel met the porcelain, and
tightened a loose fitting with my left hand.
It worked when I tried summoning
the water gods again.

"Good job, man," he rejoiced.

"I'm a plumber by trade. Don't tell anyone. It's embarrassing
but practical, and it pays the bills."

"Hey, I've seen your work. I know some people..."

"I hate even working on my own house, but thanks."

Last Call came an hour later.
The bartender only bought me one drink
despite all the rounds I'd shelled out
my hard-earned cash for.
My left hand twitched with the lack of appreciation
and that sink managed to break itself again.
What would the Fonz have done?

Man's only friend.

Long-deceased pets of yore seemed a safe topic
for the awkward post-dessert conversation.
A woman more than twice my age
reminisced across the table about her childhood mutt
as I wished my glass of milk wasn't empty.

"Princey lived to a ripe old age. He snuck out
one night when a female dog
in the neighborhood was in heat."

I laughed on the inside at the euphemism
and scratched my plate with my
chocolate-smeared fork.

"We found him dead the next morning.
Well, he wasn't totally dead yet.
We brought him to the vet
but it was too late. Apparently
he'd had a heart attack."

She'd politely failed to mention the God-decreed
act that brought on the coronary, of course.

"Poor guy," I said
half under my breath
while trying to hide the smirk.

I didn't pity his luck.
That's how this old dog
wants to go out someday, too.


Currently reading:
"An Apology for Crudity and Other Stories" by Sherwood Anderson.

Days? No. Good minutes, at best.

When we still spoke
my dad used to tell me
that growing up
he dreamed of being
six-foot-two
like the State Troopers
back then.
Needless to say
he made it
while I, of course
fell two inches short.

Was that reason enough, Chaz?

Every six months I ride by
his house, but the car
is never there
and the paint is always peeling
though I'm sure he doesn't care
what the neighbors think
as long as God is still smiling down
upon the little lie of a life he's created.

I was a bill you paid for eleven years
you fucking coward.
At least I had the decency to run...



In my recurring nightmares I beg
for second chances.
Was it Lyn or Lynn?
That's the one thing I've forgotten.

I turn my swag off.

What's worse, Willis?:
the walking pneumonia
or dishpan hands?

I'll tell you right now
that he spits when he talks.
Do you still want to meet the Stranger?
You'll barely be half-pleased
with the Revelation.

There's Fool's Gold in the gravel lot--
enough to convince them
to change all their locks
foolishly, mind you.
The fools stagger on.

We've pulled a few teeth from these knuckles before
and before the lights dim we'll yank a few more.

Never trust a girl who smokes Newports
and run if you see Reds in her purse
'cause she could probably pin your wrist
and would break more than your bloodpump.

And am I too amorous, darling?
Well just circle C
and keep your naked fingers crossed.
Will I tell you there's no Santa Claus?
No, honey; I'm a professional.

But what if the birds ganged up on the cats?

It's too obscure, it's too obscure...

It's so surreal like this month's sun-showers
and scarcely as filling as astronaut food.

"We hate it when you write like this..."

But I never called it writing, Consumers
and I've yet to receive a payroll check
though supper's always served.

Yeahyeahyeah.
Kick me through the phone.

Audobon

You could call Ed an outdoorsman, but it'd be something akin to calling Bill Gates a programmer; the label wouldn't do the man justice when he summed the word up so thoroughly. At age seven he set his first trap and caught a skunk. "Skin it, if you still want to trap," his father told him when the disappointing news was discovered. He did just that, though the stench clung to him for days, and nailed the tanned pelt up in the garage once it had lost its putrid quality. Episodes like that one gave him character, you can see it in the man today.

His obvious amount of time spent in the wilderness was part of what made a statement like "It was the only time I'd seen it happen" that much more potent. I was surprised to have heard of the phenomenon at all; witnessing it would've been interepreted as some sort of fateful sign to me, but to Ed it was just more proof that Nature's got it right where people have it wrong. He said he was out clearing a path on his dense forest property when a low-flying hawk zoomed over his head, coming so close that it caused him to duck and throw his arms up. Not two seconds went by when an army of various birds flew above him in pursuit of the hawk. Ed ran after them and spotted the reason once the procession reached a clearing: gripped in the hawk's deadly clutches was a small songbird, flapping its wings and pecking at the hawk's talons. Several different species had taken up in the fight to free the captive. The battle was about to escalate in that meadow since the multi-toned shrieks of the different pursuers had summoned more reinforcements to the theater.

The hawk swooped around in large circles in a desperate attempt to out-run the liberating faction which it couldn't out-maneuver. It must've been odd for a creature with no natural enemy except man to be the prey for once. Ed watched in amazement as more and more robins, doves, chickadees, wrens, crows and warblers dive-bombed the terrified predator relentlessly until it finally loosened its grip and let its quarry go. The weakened clump of feathers fell towards the ground, but regained strength and pulled out of its downward spin just before impact. It quickly found a branch on which to perch and chirped an appreciative tune in honor of its allies. The hawk, plenty embarrassed, gained altitude to soar high up with its majestic brethren in the clear afternoon sky, probably hoping that none of them had noticed its defeat. The winged allegiance was no longer needed. Nearly fifty birds could be seen flying their separete ways as Ed scratched his beard and wondered if anyone else had ever seen such a spectacle.

"People aren't as motivated, let alone brave. They just don't care that much," he said as the close of his tale. I figured I wouldn't deviate.

The Silent Dirge

Tax collectors, repo men, lawyers, used car swindlers, door-to-door insurance salesmen: the most hated professions in the history of the world. I pity the men in those fields who can't sleep at night, though most of them justify the means with the ends quite efficiently. I'm pretty sure I had a job like that once, until I gave it up for good in a small rural town in Upstate New York shortly after purchasing a standard marble composition book for three dollars and twenty-nine cents.

Traveling was part of my livelihood then, the business I was in required it. City to city, county to county, state to state; sometimes for an hour or two, other times for the better and worse parts of years. It was an exhilirating quality for a young man's world, but it also aged him fast. Some places appealed to me more than the rest and it broke my heart to leave them, to not be allowed to plant my roots there forever. But money made the world spin then as it does now and I didn't have the luxury of getting out of such a potentially lucrative industry for the sake of my own well-being. I'd tell you exactly what it was I did for a living during that period of my life, but I'm honestly not entirely sure what it was my employer had in mind for my role in his enterprise. There was some sort of commission involved, which is probably why I rarely received a substantial check and wound up having to give the nomadic lifestyle up when it came time to hang up my holsters.

I'd been working in that no-horse town for three months before I had the nerve to ask anyone his deal. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm no storyteller, even less of an accountant. Let me start with the diner.

The diner was the central hub of the Catskill Mountain valley town with a population of less than three hundred that for our purposes here will be known as Lucretia. I don't recall if the church on Main Street, which should have been dubbed 'Only Street', was Presbyterian or Methodist, or whether the hotdog stand sold ice cream in the winter too, or if turning on red was permitted within the bounds of that locale's jurisdiction. One forgets those details quite quickly, moreso than one realizes until called upon to regurgitate the facts some twenty years later. But that diner-- no one who's ever spent more than three days in Lucretia could deny having a crystallized memory of that diner.

Its outer shell was not decked out in chrome and mirrors, flags and banners, like those I was accustomed to encountering. From the outside it looked like any other building on the strip, red bricks and a pitched roof with its peak in the middle. If the front was not primarily glass then you probably wouldn't even know that it was an eatery. Even that term's a bit generous. An oversized sign hung ominously over the sidewalk like a relic of the post-War age. "Steaks, Chops, Cutlets" it falsely advertised.

The inside was not much more impressive. One entered on the left side of the storefront and was immediately presented with a long countertop that spanned the entire length of the left wall right back to the kitchen. Booths lined the front and right side of the perimeter. A mass of tables and chairs that was constantly liable to slight alterations filled the center of the room. Patrons wiped their feet well on the tattered mat near the entrance, but it was too late; the tiles were already crumbling in their places. It didn't seem such a shame, though, since whoever had installed the black-and-white checkered pattern decades beforehand didn't bother to stick to the prescribed plan too faithfully. Some patches of the floor had clearly been laid after lunch on a Friday. Things on the high side of the room were no less inconsistent; the ceiling fans all spun at different speeds no matter how many times the chains were tugged. The kitchen, as I said earlier, was in the back left corner of the room. One restroom was located adjacent to the kitchen, and there was a glass door at the righthand corner in the back of the building that served as a rear entrance, though more often than not it was an escape route. Two booths were located in that remote corner of the diner, but no one voluntarily sat there. Well, almost no one.

School didn't seem to be an emphasis in Catskill life, at least not in Lucretia, but for the benefit of the metaphor let's pretend that everyone living there had gone to high school together. If that were indeed the case, then the Lucretia Diner picked up where the high school cafeteria's lunch table had left off. Everyone who was anyone ate at least one meal a day at that establishment religiously whether or not the daily specials had been changed once that week. The vegetables were overcooked mush, the soup tasted vaguely of potato dirt and rancid bacon grease, and the morning chef had somehow managed to burn every piece of toast that came out of the kitchen. Eggs. Eggs were the only safe bet on the menu, probably because they were guaranteed fresh by the hens that lived out back. An overhead view of the restaurant would prove that most natives agreed with my assessment; any plate belonging to a true-blue Lucretian would have yellow or white eggs on it, while the plates of vagabonds and passers-through would show faded greens and browns and various degrees of unappetizingly dull hues between the two. I must confess, it took me a full week of experimentation to join the first group, but I suppose that's not the worst track record in town.

The clientele may as well have had assigned seats with their names on them, or at least designated sections. Loggers sat with loggers at the end of the counter. Merchants and clerks huddled at the booths near the front windows, possibly in a subconscious effort to spot potential customers. The postman, the pastor, and the chief of police dined and lounged together at the central table section whenever their conflicting schedules would allow for it. Children congregated at the counter, though their mothers usually made them sit at as far away from the loggers as possible as if the temporary distance between them would save them from such a cruel and common fate. Felling trees was an honorable trade in the community, one that had sustained the local economy since its existence, but it was still hard for a mother to watch her son accept that yoke, or watch a daughter fall into the clutches of the burly, whiskey-ruined remnants of a lumberman who was once young and promising enough to escape Lucretia. The rest of the folks sat scattered here and there throughout the confines of the diner's walls, making sure not to trespass on another group's claim. When it did happen by accident there was never an exchange of words, only a few quick remarks and falsely smiling eyes to show that a foul had been committed. There was, however, the one time when Merle Windham had come back to society from a three-week bender after his wife had died of cancer, only to find some unfortunate soul sitting in his seat at the far end of the counter, but no one ever spoke of that incident or its victim ever again after it happened and I intend to follow suit here.

By this time you're probably wondering where I sat at the Lucretian Diner. I'll be honest: I was content to dine wherever the waitress suggested for that particular time, probably because my first experience there had been on that fateful night when good ol' Merle had stumbled through the front doors wanting some eggs to wash down his whiskey. I didn't mind the passive role I played on that particular stage, it led to some good angles and different perspectives that could've otherwise been missed. One day I was in a corner booth, the next at a table next to the who's who of town, sometimes I sat between the kids and the loggers like some distorted timeline in the form of a rare Rockwell painting. Dorothy, the head waitress, never steered me wrong. "Follow me?" she'd always ask when I walked in, as if I'd have the nerve to disobey after that first spectacle. "Scrambled or fried today, Mr. Thorpe?" was the next query in her service routine after that first week of dabbling in the menu's limited selections. Dorothy didn't bother handing them out to the regulars. I didn't notice that until after I'd been a patron for two months.

Exploring the territory had lost its novelty quickly. Most of the roads were named after founding families of the town where their decendants still resided. I learned the hard way that these funny-sounding streets with names like "Joneswright Way" and "Cockle Lane" were not public streets at all; they were long, winding, and imperatively private driveways which would be defended to the death until the last shotgun shell was fired. Perhaps if my strolls had taken place before the questionable motives implied by the setting of dusk, twilight, and beyond then I would have encountered friendly families sitting on porches instead of warning shots and guard dogs. Despite my less-than-amiable encounters it saddens me to think that those oddly named road names will probably be bought up and changed to things like "Birch Ridge Drive" and "Meadowbrook Road" by the urban sprawl of city slickers, if they haven't already. Lucretia was the kind of town where a communal gas-powered log splitter was left in a lot on the main drag year-round and no one had the audacity to steal it. I'm not so sure it's like that anymore, but I hope that it is.

As I'd bet you can imagine things tended to get a little boring in that lonesome mountain town once late-night walks were ruled out. Many a cup of coffee was consumed there just to kill time by both myself and most of the town's inhabitants. It was a place to be outside of the home or rented dwelling, aside from the daily grind. Again, to this day I'm not sure what my line of work even was back in those crazy years, but I knew it required me to live in Lucretia for a period of five-and-a-half months. Whenever I wasn't off doing whatever it was I was assigned to do, or jotting things down in a marble notebook in my rented room above the Rusty Axe Taproom, or getting lost both figuratively and otherwise in a book near some stream or precipice, I was sitting at the Creesh, as it was called, sipping burnt coffee and wondering when and where my next gig would take me.

Dorothy kept me company as best she could without seeming overly friendly and disturbing the delicate balance imposed by her fellow Lucretians. Standard waitress small-talk was permitted, the occasional laugh was tolerated, but nothing more. No one knew my identity or my purpose in their fine little town, and I wasn't in a position to change that. One day, about two months into my stay there, I left my notebook on the table by accident. Dorothy had always seen me scribbling in it in between coffee mug refills and must've assumed it was important, more important than it really was. She went over to where I'd been sitting to wipe the table and claim her tip when she noticed my blunder. "Mr. Thorpe!" she yelled in my direction as my hand reached for the front door of the diner just before closing time. "You forgot your book." The words sounded unusual coming out of her mouth. I suppose it was my book, though, in the same way that this will be part of it someday. "Thanks, Dorth," I said with a tired smile as I met her halfway to claim it. My hand brushed against hers as she handed me the notebook and one edge of her mouth curved upwards in a genuine show of friendship. From then on we were pals.

Dorothy continued to warm up to me after that episode. The townspeople didn't seem to mind. I don't think she realized it, but Dorothy had more say in who was to be accepted by the population and who wasn't. She was the head waitress, the only waitress to be truthful, in Lucretia's main attraction. Her word was law, but she didn't abuse the power. If Daniel Thorpe was OK in Dorothy Sparker's book, then Dan and his silly book were to be welcomed with at least tentatively opened arms. I'm not sure how or when it happened, but it felt like a secret meeting had been held to address the issue of how I was to be treated. Almost overnight my status had improved. People greeted me more graciously and slowed their strides to make sure they'd be able to hold the door for me if I was approaching behind them. Whatever word Dorothy was spreading about my alleged sanctity was working wonders. I began to write more in that book of mine, and Dorothy fed me plenty of useful information to help my endeavor. When the Creesh wasn't busy, sometimes even when it was, she'd sit across from me for a quick piece of burnt toast and eggs washed down with coffee and tell me the latest gossip or an interesting piece of the town's history. It turned out there was more to Lucretia than one passing through on a weekend trek could ever imagine. My hand would cramp viciously at night from transcribing all of the tales I'd heard that day. Sometimes the specifics were jumbled a bit, but most great fiction is composed of two-thirds of the truth. The checks kept coming from my employer for some reason despite my lack of ambition in the vague work department, possibly due to some mistake in the payroll office. I felt like one of the famous American expatriate writers living in Paris in the 1920s: money for nothing, the cafe lifestyle, and a constant flow of priceless ink on the paper.

By the third month I was no longer limited to listening to what Dorothy chose to share with me. My questions were well received and answered to the best of her knowledge. My marble notebook had overflowed and I had purchased two more at Lucky's General Store. I had dossiers on a majority of the most interesting people in town, all except one fellow who always sat near the rear entrance of the diner by himself and never made eye contact with anyone. Something inside me knew that his was probably the most poignant tale. Maybe that's why I'd waited so long to ask Dorothy about him; I was saving the best for last.

"Who's that gentleman sitting back there all alone?" I asked during a lull in the action at the Creesh.

"That's no one, don't worry about him," came quickly from her mouth in a tone I'd never heard her use before. She avoided meeting my eyes as she said it just as the man in question always did. At first I thought that maybe she was being evasive because he was a past love of hers, but I took another look at his crumpled shirt, unkempt hair, and filthy face and came to the conclusion that no one had ever loved him in his life.

"Come on, Dorth. Don't hold out on me. I'm going to make this town famous someday, I need all the facts."

"This town don't want no fame, Mr. Thorpe. Finish your eggs before they get cold." A strange sense that she was trying to protect me from something swept over me so I let the issue go for the moment.

"Fine, but don't expect as generous a tip today." Her mouth formed that sincere half-smile and that was the end of it.

At least I thought it was the end of it. I found myself unable to sleep as a result of her instant change in attitude regarding the mysterious character who silently entered the diner and never had a soul to keep him company. Even Dorothy, one of the town's most friendly individuals, showed her distate for the man by bringing him a plate of eggs without bothering to ask how he wanted them prepared. Something wasn't right about the situation. All writing ceased for a few days while I wrestled with the enigma in the privacy of my mind until I gave in and decided to find out just who the man was by asking the most innocently honest source. Luckily, Dorothy sat me at the counter that day right between the loggers and the children getting milkshakes with their allowances.

"Hey there, Jimmy."

" D'aftanoon, Mista Thorpe." Jimmy was a fine boy of nine who was about to earn himself a second milkshake.

"Say, I seem to have ordered a milkshake by accident and don't think I can handle it. Would you be interested in helping me out?"

"O'course, sir. What's the catch?" Even country kids knew that everything had a price.

"Well, Jimmy, I was wondering if you happened to know who that man sitting back there is. I'm writing a book about your town, you see, and..."

"No problem, Dan." We were on an equal plane by that point in the conversation apparently. "That there's Mr. Franklin Stevens."

"Now we're getting somewhere, Jim. Mr. Stevens is always by himself. What's his major malfunction?"

"You'd be shunned too if you'd gone and killed your brother."

So that was it. Lucretia had a dark underbelly that it didn't want an outsider to see. The Creesh's new resident loner was a renegade salesman-turned-writer, and the old one was a fratricide.

"Thanks."

"What about my ice cream?"

"Dorothy, see that li'l Jim here gets a milkshake on my tab."

I left the diner with an uncomfortable feeling that had never come over me before. A hundred sets of eyes were watching me from the safety of their homes and shadows formed by trees. I knew their secret now, their charade was up. It didn't help my insomnia any.

Sunrise could not come fast enough so I gave up trying to wait for its arrival. Dorothy, as embassador, had some explaining to do. It was so early in the morning that even the loggers wouldn't be there for breakfast yet, but I knew that she'd let me in. She did.

"What brings you here so early, Dan?"

"I know about Frank Stevens. I want answers. How could you leave out such an important character?"

"Look here, Mr. Thorpe," she said with an index finger itching to be raised as if scolding a schoolboy of Jimmy's age. "I don't want to have to ask you to leave."

Her threat was shallow and I knew it. I decided to take the other approach.

"Dorothy, all I want is to know the man's story. I promise I won't spread word of a murder here in Lucretia."

"Murder? There wasn't no murder."

"Did a jury decide that?"

"Wasn't no cover-up, either, Dan." I was Dan again, no longer Mr. Thorpe. I was making progress.

"Then what happened?"

"He was five years old and burnt his house down playing with matches. His kid brother was asleep inside and they couldn't get him out in time. The smoke choked him to death."

"So it was an accident, Frank wouldn't have been penalized. It was never reported?"

"The Stevens family was dirt poor, too poor to afford a lawyer. They could barely support themselves."

"That's no reason to let a death go undocumented, Dorth..."

"It wasn't undocumented. You can read all about it on Frank's face any day of the week. He crawled into some sort of shell after the accident, and no one ever treated him the same afterwards."

"Even so, his brother's accidental manslaughter should've been acknowledged by the law."

"It wasn't no manslaughter, Mr. Thorpe. Like I told you, the Stevens family didn't have a dime. It was a thinning of the herd."

I let it go at that. Dealing with my mother as a child had taught me when a woman was to have the final say in a matter. The case of Franklin Stevens was one of those scenarios. I left the diner, walked briskly back to my rented room above the Rusty Axe, and slept soundly for the first time in days.

A little over two months went by in an uneventful manner. My interaction with Dorothy and the other residents of Lucretia continued as usual, but the checks had been cut off. My employer must have found the error in the payroll department. My stay in town was about to be terminated since I'd have to go back to the real world in search of a real job. I didn't have the hands to be a lumberman, and there sure wasn't an opening in the local clergy for me. I wrote too much to be a holy man, the Good Book had already been written. Packing my things didn't take long. A brand new briefcase that had been issued arbitrarily by my former boss some years back revealed itself once again upon a final inspection of my closet. I tossed it into my car along with my suitcase and other belongings, thanked the barkeep downstairs for letting me occupy his room for so long, and headed for the Lucretia Diner for what would be my last serving of eggs for a long time.

In a lighthearted effort to appear prestigious during my last meal at the Creesh I brought that ridiculous pristine briefcase in with me as my stage prop instead of the customary notebook. The smallest inclinations tend to lead to the biggest discoveries. Just ask Eve.

The mood in the Creesh was uncharacteristically somber. There weren't many customers, but something was off about the general atmosphere. Dorothy barely noticed my arrival at first so I helped myself to a stool at the counter. She snapped out of her daze and pretended to be cheerful.

"You look nice today, Daniel." She must've been referring to my briefcase because my clothes and grooming habits had remained unaltered.

"Don't lie to me, I look like hell. What's with this place? It looks like someone died."

"Someone did, Mr. Thorpe." I really hated how she, Jimmy, and the rest of those Lucretians changed ones title to account for their current attitude towards him so effectively. "The funeral's being held right now."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Who was it?"

"Barry, the barber over there on First Street." First Street was one of the few streets that was not named after a local family, and was therefore safe to travel at any hour of the day or night. I knew it well. Barry had even cut my hair once or twice during my five-month sabbatical in Lucretia.

"Maybe I should head over to the cemetery." It was the kind of place where you went to your barber's funeral, even if he'd only touched your head a few times.

"No, no...It's too late, it should be getting out soon. Eggs?"

"Of course. And a fresh pot of coffee if you don't mind. I'm leaving town today, you know."

"I know." Of course she did. News travels fast in small places.

The coffee was served too soon to be fresh. Dorothy gave no special treatment to a man just because he was leaving town, even though they were practically friends for a time. I respected her immensely for that. I sipped my stale coffee and felt the smooth auburn leather of the briefcase sitting on the floor brush up against the leg of my pants.

"Hey, Dorth. Why's Frank Stevens dressed up if he's the only one here? He can't care too much about Barry if he didn't bother going to the service."

Her cheeks paled as I'd seen them do twice before.

"He probably thought it best not to show his face there." She was dodging me and I knew it.

"Then why the suit? Why the tie?" Part of me already knew the answer.

"Barry was Franklin's father."

My foot jolted to the side when I heard that final piece of the puzzle, knocking over the briefcase.

"I thought you said their family had no money. Barry seemed to have a decent business."

"He did, once he opened his barber shop thirty years ago."

A gust of wind conjured itself within those walls and sent a draft up the leg of my pants. I glanced down at the briefcase my late employer had given me. The impact had caused it to open. Business cards and brochures were sprawled out on the dingy tile. I picked up one of the cards. "Booker's Insurance Agency," I read to myself. It rang a vague bell. Maybe I had worked for that firm at one time. That's when it hit me. I slammed the insurance company's card down on the counter and made my way for the rear of the building.

"Mr. Thorpe, what are you doing? Daniel!"

It was too late to stop me. Someone had to do it. I sat down across from Mr. Franklin Stevens, extended my hand, and attempted to introduce myself as best I could. He barely stirred from his initial position and continued to ruminate over his cold cup of coffee. My faked cordiality subsided once I saw that it wouldn't have an affect.

"It wasn't your fault. I know that you didn't start that fire. It was your father. He did it for the insurance money."

Franklin turned his head and stared at me blankly as if I'd just read the permanent Daily Specials from the menu and he wanted eggs again.

"And your brother, they couldn't afford to take care of both you and your brother so..."

Then, for the second time in two minutes, something struck me. This time, however, it was in quite the literal sense. Dorothy's hand had swooped down and slapped me firmly across my left cheek before I even had a chance to see her coming. My briefcase was shoved into my chest just as instantaneously as the palm had been delivered.

"Mr. Thorpe," she commanded as she stretched that motherly index finer in the direction of the front door, "I do believe you've finally outworn your welcome here in Lucretia."

I glanced at Frank for a word of support that I knew wasn't coming. Everyone, including him, knew what had really happened thirty years prior. He'd carried that cardboard cross for decades. It was a feat that people came to expect of him to maintain the stability of the town. That burden was too crucial to the balance of their world to give up now for the mere sake of the truth.

"Scrambled today, please, Miss Sparker," Franklin said with what were probably the first words uttered publically in years.

"Coming right up, Mr. Stevens," she said as she glared at me until I rose to my feet to leave.

The sun was shining too brightly through the front of the diner as I headed for the door. It was deceptive. Lucretia. It probably meant "Lie" in some foreign tongue.

"Mr. Thorpe," Dorothy Sparker yelled in the same sympathetic voice as she had once before regarding my notebook, "You forgot your briefcase."

"No, I didn't forget. Take care of them, Miss Sparker." I meant all of them, but I doubt she understood.

The funeral procession was walking its way down Main Street in the direction of the diner as I hopped into my car. Merle Windham staggered forward with a few stragglers in the rear, all of them visibly drunk. They broke off from the formation and made their way through the front door of the Rusty Axe to wet their palates in honor of Barry Stevens, a coward the whole town would pretend to miss.

My ride back to the city didn't take as long as it should've. It felt good to be back in civilization again. When the couch got uncomfortable I went out and found a more suitable job; the Lucretia notebooks were shoved into a dark corner for what would turn out to be years; and I vowed to never eat eggs again.